


the ghost that broke my heart before I met you

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But not soulmates, F/M, Gen, Magical Realism, Mutual Pining, Not Really Character Death, Pining, Red Room (Marvel), Soul Bond, Touch-Starved, am I only dreaming or is this (slow) burn(ing) an eeeternaaaal flaaaaame, incorporeal spouse, intimacy by proxy, is it a threesome if one of them is dead?, it's always darkest before the dawn, life after death, lying and killing in the service of liars and killers, magic is just science with a fancier hat on, mute character, posthumous wedding, tangram puzzle of religious beliefs, the pitfalls of political indoctrination, welcome to the multiverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: According to the Old Faith, no single person can ascend to Paradise, so to save a fallen war hero's soul from limbo, a young Red Room agent decides to marry his spirit. After all, what has she got to lose?(Or: a Black Widow origin story with an incorporeal husband, shady government agencies and salvation that comes at the tip of an arrow. Only not in the way Natasha would have expected.)
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18
Collections: Winterwidowhawk Fest





	1. empty chairs

**Author's Note:**

> I could explain where this might fit into Marvel canon or which pieces I've changed around but honestly, its much more fun for all of us if I just throw you into the deep end and let you find out for yourself. Here's your swimming ring.
> 
> This fic has not been beta'ed.

Winifred Barnes' eyes have the dry, haggard look of someone who has cried for such a long time, their face will never be the same again. Her hands are folded primly on top of her knees, whole posture perfectly composed, not a hair out of place; the very picture of collected calm. 

If it weren't for those eyes.

Natasha takes a delicate sip of tea and offers an encouraging smile. The silence in the unfamiliar living room is stifling, only the pendulum of a grandfather clock in the corner ticking away, the eventual delicate clink of china and the candle in front of the household shrine sputtering every so often.

Picking up the portrait of the laughing young soldier from the low table between them, she traces a fingertip along the line of a strong jaw, its dimpled chin and the jaunty angle of his hat. "A handsome man," she admits. "I'm sure a lot of women would call themselves lucky to marry a man like him."

With a shuddering sigh, Mrs. Barnes drags her gaze away from the framed picture and subjects the young lady before here to close scrutiny.

"You're a beautiful woman yourself, Miss Romanoff." It's a statement of fact, not a compliment, and Natasha accepts it as such. "Do you think appearances are enough to be the right wife for my James?"

"No, Ma'am," she smiles, looking down at the sepia tones of the photograph in her hands, addressing the image as much as his mother, "but we do have a lot in common. Just like your son, I've excelled in my training, finished with top marks and have been commended for my loyalty to the motherland."

The clock ticks on mercilessly while the women silently regard each other. At last, Mrs. Barnes consults the sheaf of paper next to her own, untouched cup of tea.

"It does say here that your commanding officers think very highly of you, and your grades are indeed remarkable," she admits, skimming a few impressive seals and recommendations before her attention catches at the _personal interests_ section. Her eyes flick up. "You dance?"

"Yes, Ma'am. Without false modesty, I am a very accomplished dancer."

"James loved to dance." Mrs. Barnes voice is flat, the hopeless attempt to shape a smile looking forlorn and out of place on her grief-stricken face.

Natasha says nothing in return, looks out the window and counts pendulum swings to allow the other woman the moment to collect herself.

"I have only one last question, Miss Romanoff," Mrs. Barnes asks after about a dozen beats, laying another heavy look on her. "Why do want to marry my James? Your references are excellent, you're intelligent, healthy, beautiful and still so young. While I appreciate your faith, wouldn't it be preferable and dare I say rather _easy_ for you to find yourself a husband who is still- who hasn't-" she breaks off with a hiccuping half-sob and clasps a forbidding hand in front of her mouth.

"Why not find myself a husband in this life?" Natasha smiles sadly. "You have my resume right there. Even though we've never met, James and I share more than ideals and test scores. I am about to graduate from the program and even though I cannot talk about specifics, it's been strongly hinted that this promotion will offer more opportunity to serve the motherland than ever before." Natasha clears her suddenly dry throat and smoothes down her already creaseless skirt. 

Carefully gauging her opposite's reaction, she haltingly continues, "Mrs. Barnes, your son was a good man. A good soldier. I've learned this much, despite the fact that our paths have never crossed before. Like him and your family, I too was brought up in the Old Faith and know that there is a place in the afterlife for all of us. A hero like your son should not be spending eternity by himself. It will be an honour and a comfort to know that James is waiting for me when I leave this world. And following the same honourable path that he chose-" she casts down her eyes and takes a deep breath to compose herself "he might not have to wait too long. Chances are it won't be forever until I join him. Knowing this will make me an even more effective agent, unafraid of the day when it is time for me to lay my life down for the greater purpose. And hopefully, James will be proud of the wife who carried on his mission when that day comes."

For the first time, Mrs. Barnes' smile comes close to resembling something akin to happiness. 

~*~

The ceremony is small and intimate.

Natasha wears a classic wedding dress that Madam B. procures, hem brushing her shoes and fingertips hidden in the traditionally overlong sleeves.

Lacking family of her own to give her away, Madam B. is also the one to braid Natasha's hair into two thick red plaits, placing the white lace over her eyes and saying the old prayers while she winds the ceremonial golden cord around the bride's waist. Natasha would like to think that the usually so stoic and disappointed expression on her mentor's face is an idea kinder today, maybe even a tiny bit proud when she opens the door to guide her charge into the modest temple room. Straightening her back, Natasha clasps the bouquet of white lillies through the sleeves' fabric and holds her head high as she steps over the threshold.

Surrounded by candles, the brushed-out parade uniform of Sergeant James Barnes hangs displayed on the wall, his shoes shined to perfection on the ground beneath empty trouser legs. Natasha's eyes arrest on the single crooked button they've hooked the groom's golden cord on, no substance to the jacket's middle to keep it from sliding off.

Unlike a marriage of the living, the rite has a mood that is more fitting for a wake, Mrs. Barnes and her daughter Rebecca, James' sister, holding on to each other with damp eyes and trembling limbs while their local shaman, Dr. Strange, does the honours.

While all the steps are familiar in theory, handed down in oral history, it's a completely different thing to herself be the one feel who is tugged forward as the holy man weaves intricate knots to combine the cords between her and the empty suit. 

Binding her soul to that of an unfamiliar dead man.

Swallowing her nerves, Natasha silently starts praying for strength, willing herself not to shake. 

Dr. Strange paints glowing sigils into thin air with confidence, murmuring incessantly in the old language as he performs the rites, bowing formally to the table covered with the traditional instruments. 

Natasha knows _the wine, the bread and the knife_ all the way back from her days of nursery rhymes.

As if feeling for something like an aura, the shaman holds out a palm over an ornamental bowl that sits next to these items atop the embroidered cloth. He unstoppers a plain plastic medical vial marked _Barnes, J. B._ and pours its content into the bowl. A soft hum like the echo of a tuning fork fills the air, the sergeant's blood rippling over the brass as if reacting to tremors unnoticeable on this plane.

Solemnly, Dr. Strange turns to Natasha, unclasping the ornamental brooch of her dress to uncover the small window to her skin let into the garment high above her left breast. Despite her best efforts, she shudders when the scalpel approaches, but the shaman only smiles encouragingly. This is far from his first wedding, it seems to say, he will not leave a scar. Natasha tries to relax, focusing on the broad streaks of white at the man's temple. 

The blade is so sharp, it hardly stings when he draws a few scant drops of her blood, catching it in the bowl to become one with the crimson offering at its bottom. 

Heads bowed, the small congregation mouths along in silent but familiar prayer as the shaman speaks the incantation. An incorporeal sigh echoes through the room, causing Winifred and Rebecca Barnes to break into fresh tears. 

Dr. Strange speeds up in his words, voice taking on an imploring tone. Light has begun to spark off the golden cord around Natasha's waist. Warmth radiates from it like friction burn. Ritual nearing its conclusion, Strange pours wine from the ornately decorated carafe over the bread. He tears it in half and -as the groom can't do it himself- offers it up to Natasha's lips. Obligingly, she accepts, the taste of unfamiliar herbs and spices thick on her tongue as the shaman presses the other half of the small loaf into the bloodied bowl, crushing the soft crumb between his fingers as it soaks up their combined essence.

The inside of Natasha's mouth begins to tingle. Swallowing hard, she forces down the bread, the lump in her throat leaving an unexpected trail of heat. Something amidst the spicy conconction is biting at her sinuses and she coughs involuntarily, panic rising at such indelicate behaviour. 

Blinking, she becomes aware of coronas fanning out behind the candles, of an uncontrollable shiver taking over her body. A confused noise escapes her as the lights flicker harder, moved by an impossible breeze moving through the closed room. Firm arms catch her safely at either side when her knees threaten to buckle, the hopeful faces of the Barnes women moving strangely in and out of focus where they hold her. Dr. Strange takes Natasha's chin in a surprisingly strong grip and forces more wine past her lips, the liquid burning with spices against her tongue, splashing down her chin and soaking into the lace as Natasha does her best to swallow.

With a final crescendo, the incantation concludes. Dr. Strange drops the carafe, ruining the rest of Natasha's dress before it shatters on the stone floor. Sweat of exertion is dripping down his face, a glowing, swirling sigil of bright light on his palm the last thing she sees before he presses it over her heart. 

Natasha gasps as frost bites into her feverish skin. Like winter's kiss, the cold feasts itself on her life force, tugging at an intangible part of her until, like a door blown off its hinges by a snowstorm something gives way and opens up inside her. A previously unknown dimension blossoms, as overwhelming and fortifying as a first ray of sunshine after a night of terrors, Natasha's lungs expand with what feels like her first ever full, deep breath.

In her periphery, something flickers, accompanied by the fading echo of a happy laugh she's never heard before and the sensory afterimage of sugar and cinnamon in her nose. 

Fingers snap sharply in front of her face and Natasha comes to with a start, panting open-mouthed as the shaman's inquiring gaze gives way to relieved accomplishment. 

"Congratulations, Mrs. Romanoff," he says with a self-satisfied smile.

~*~

Natasha still feels off-kilter when she is escorted to the room James Barnes -her husband, she should get used to calling him- left behind. The door closes with a discreet snick and then she is alone. Trying not to feel like an intruder, she looks around. 

It's not a child's room, but that of a young man who took his most important possessions with him before joining a war he didn't know he'd never return from. There's a few sets of civilian clothes in the closet but they are all freshly laundered, the room itself not impersonal so much as overly clean and tidied, either by himself or, more likely, his mother. 

Natasha sighs, soaking up the strange quiet and unsure of what to do next. Now that the mounting tension that led up to the ceremony is ebbing off, she becomes more aware of the fact that her stomach is still in knots. Blaming the strange wine, the shaman's spell, hell, even the lingering anxiety that has haunted her for the entire day, Natasha retires to the room's single bed, just lying down in her full wedding gown. Staring at the ceiling, she lifts her own veil. 

It's tough not to be aware of how this should have been her husband's task, to take her to bed on their wedding night, where according to tradition, they'd join in body what the shaman had joined in spirit; all the while the golden cord connected them symbolically. On the bedside table lies the traditional beribboned pair of scissors, waiting to cut them loose after the deed is done and they are forever joined invisibly. In the twilight of dusk, Natasha sees the neat, colourful embroidery where her sister-in-law has cross stitched their names and the date into pristine bands of white cotton dangling from the grip. One more labour of love for the memory of a man who will never know about it. 

The empty loop of cord hangs loosely from her hip like a noose and Natasha slips it over her arm to break the morbid train of thought. 

An unfamiliar tingle runs under her skin as she passes through the golden circle and she stifles a surprised gasp. Experimentally, she moves her hand away, then returns it and again, a sensation much like static electricity prickles across her skin. 

Natasha's breath hitches as her heart rate speeds up.

While she's been perfectly honest when she'd declared her faith to Mrs. Barnes _-Winifred,_ rather- it makes all the difference to have proof of _something_ in the room with her, something she is registering with that intangible new sense she has no name for. 

"James?" she whispers under her breath, eyes wide in disbelief in the growing darkness, but unable to spot anything out of the ordinary. In fact, she's about to disregard the sensation as overwrought nerves when a wave of calm washes over her, so intimate and immediately familiar, it takes a second to register that the emotion is not her own. Holding her her breath, Natasha searches her mind, closing her eyes tightly with the effort of questing for another presence. Finding nothing, she looks up to search the room, but there is nothing visible, nothing tangible, no sign at all that she is anything but alone. 

Slowly, as if confronting a spooked animal she sits up, shaking the long sleeve away from her wrist to hold out her hand. 

"If you're here, James, please let me know." Intently she stares at the polished new band of gold on her finger. Nothing happens for a long moment until a sudden wave of affection washes over her like a physical sensation, setting her nerve-endings alight from head to toe like an unexpectedly cresting climax. An embarrassing noise of surprise and pleasure tears from her lips as she bucks up against thin air, the texture of the golden cord rough against her palms as she reflexively pulls it taught and falls back into the pillows.

For the longest time, she lies still, trying valiantly to calm her racing heart, thoughts and, not least, breath. Despite being helplessly out of her depth in terms of communication with the spirit world, Natasha is pretty sure she can sense a certain amount of smug satisfaction trickling down the newly formed bond.

When the knock comes early the next morning, she is already awake. Despite her best intentions, the previous day was so exhausting that she fell asleep sooner rather then later, her braids still mostly presentable but her make-up smudged beyond repair, white dress rumpled and wine-stained. For all that this is the end of her first night as a married woman, she looks less like a happily debauched bride than, fittingly, like death warmed over. 

It's Madam B. who comes to take her back to the Red Room, offering her the comparatively plain, lacquered Widow's Shrine. Natasha carefully places both the ceremonial scissors and the cut cord inside the wooden box, its gold in stark contrast to the dark velvet lining. The white veil covers both items like a shroud. Her wedding band, worn just for this one night, glints up to her before she closes the box, briefly marvelling at the craftsmanship in its lid, inlaid with so many delicate red hourglass shapes.

Casting aside the last remains of sentimentality, Natasha bows her head to Madam B., her world growing a shade darker as the black widow's veil is placed on her brow.

At the back of her mind, palpable through a connection still as tenuous as a single spider's thread, James signals proud encouragement.


	2. a busy street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-graphic canon Red Room medical procedures.

For a person as private as Natasha, having James as a reliably intangible presence in her mind should feel far more disconcerting than it does. On the contrary, the following days and weeks prove that for the most part, it is only as if she has gained another, sixth sense that helps watch her back, anticipate potential threats and - not that she would ever tell anyone - makes it strangely intuitive to cheat at card games.

Already top of her class before, both this awareness and the added confidence it brings distinguishes her more than ever. As she'd predicted, it takes only a few more months of increasingly vigorous training before she is called before her superior officers and told the date of her upcoming graduation. The procedure itself is shrouded in great mystery, only known to the initiated themselves, but as it is such a great honour, the anxious energy James appears to feel about it seems greatly misplaced. Even though their connection has strengthened over time, she can't very well ask him what has him so worried. Emotions are the only thing to really pass for communication between them, apart from the brief and unhelpfully vague flicker of something _more_ while she was still under the influence of Dr. Strange's wedding elixir. In the end, there isn't much else Natasha can do than attempt to relay her own calm confidence.

On the day of the procedure, Natasha is still no wiser as to what she is getting herself into when she dresses in the medical gown and lies on a gurney. The infusion in her arm comes straight from the fridge, spreading liquid coldness through her limbs with every monotonous drip that echoes through the examination room. A white-haired physician with a hunched back and the watery eyes provided by a long life spent in front of poorly-lit microscopes takes first one, then her other goose-pimpled wrist and fixates it with sturdy leather restraints. 

Natasha shudders. With cold, with sudden fright and with the darkness edging into her vision from the drugs in her system. All sounds gain an underwater quality and somebody is calling her name from far away. Her stomach lurches when a nurse places her legs in stirrups and locks them, too, in place at both knee and ankle. 

While the room falls away, the unfamiliar voice is growing both more desperate and more distinct, like a radio finding its frequency. Lids growing heavier with every slow blink, Natasha can barely focus on the shape of a man, shouting almost inaudibly for her as if behind a thick glass wall. It takes her addled brain too long to reconcile the distraught face with the eternally smiling portrait she's been given, but once she does, there is no doubt that it's James, crying and begging on her behalf, attempting to reign inconsequential, translucent, impotent wrath on the unnoticing personell. 

He shouldn't feel this distraught, Natasha thinks distractedly, wasn't this why they got married in the first place? She will make sure to tell him. After she rests her eyes for just one minute.

~*~

This is what happens next: James loses his faith in the Motherland's great plan. The command he lay down his life for has deeply betrayed his sacrifice when they took her into that room.

Natasha knows this without the shadow of a doubt. While she physically recovers among clean linens and stares into the increasingly naked crown of the fall tree before the window, she's almost glad that there are no words between them that they can make a mess of exchanging.

~*~

It takes only a week before she is cleared for active duty and sent on the first mission of her new career.

James' silent vigilance over her never wavers.

~*~

In record time, the Black Widow makes a name for herself. One of the most effective covert agents of all time, equipped with what her opponents can only describe as an uncanny perception and preternatural instincts.  
Apart from missions she keeps her own company, collecting commendations for efficiency from her superiors in equal measures to the awed apprehension of fellow operatives.

In the quiet of their shared mind, Natasha secretly longs for the arms of her husband and feels in return how James longs for the embrace of his wife.

Despite their limited means of communication, they grow to know each other better. By the time their first wedding anniversary rolls around, Natasha's learned that her initial observation of shared ideals and interests has proven true. It stays their secret that it's no longer zealous indoctrination that ties them together, but the growing distrust of that very creed.

Sometimes, on the edges of sleep, the barriers between them grow thin, never enough for any substantial contact, but enough for a glimpse of an expression or a cheeky approximation of a touch. On a handful of these rare occasions, Natasha has worn herself out on purpose. She drinks too much. Swallows suspicious things in the hopes of recreating the effects of the shaman's mystic spices. Buoyed by substances that make reality blur around the edges, she takes to bed alone, her hot hands on herself pretending they are James'. Cheeks flushed with shame as much as with arousal, she feels both wanton and watched, guilty with how much she enjoys the love and adoration James sends licking like a hungry flame against every fibre of her soul despite their bitter awareness that their bodies will never be that lucky.

The next morning brings headaches of unbearable proportions, misery and grief like added poison to a roiling stomach.

Well-versed in her trade as she is, Natasha can tell the structures around her grow just as brittle as her happiness. The collapse of her chain-of-command is obvious to her a long time before the first outward cracks show. James makes his agreement known, encouraging her when one day, she takes the wedding band from its dusty shrine and places it back in its rightful place upon her finger. Nothing else is missing when they come searching for her the next morning. 

The Black Widow has disappeared without a trace.

~*~

Once more, James proves an immeasurable advantage when it comes to staying undetected. With all of Natasha's own skills, she's already most difficult to find, but with his additional senses keeping watch, she becomes almost ghost-like herself.

Days become weeks, weeks become months and before long, the year is drawing to a close; short days and increasingly longer nights wrapping friendly darkness around the lonely traveller.

Another month rolls around, finding Natasha in a non-descript port city, taking odd jobs at the fringe of legality where nobody looks too closely at their opposite for fear of being looked at too closely in return. She uses her acquired skills indiscriminately where they are adequately compensated for, drifting like an unmoored barge and never staying too long in one place, her aching heart growing colder with the season. At the back of her mind, James offers solace and encouragement, but his own longing for her tinges even this comfort bittersweet.

They have been in Romania for two days when Natasha notices the date, abandoning a job halfway through and just walking away from an alley where a confused crying man kneels that she's been paid to execute.

She takes herself to the closest bar and orders the most expensive bottle of vodka they have on the shelf. 

"What are we celebrating?" the objectively handsome bartender asks, smiling at the prospect of more guests with deep pockets. 

"It's my wedding anniversary," Natasha replies, swirling the sluggish liquid against the rim of her glass pensively before knocking back the first shot like water. 

"Congratulations!" the man exclaims without any genuine emotion, letting his eyes roam unashamedly all over her curves until he arrives back at the troubled green of her eyes. "What a lucky man."

Natasha laughs through the entire first half of the bottle and cries all the way through the second.


	3. fall to your knees

Things go from bad to worse after that. 

Natasha picks up a tail on her next stop and although it's far from the first time, this one she can't shake. She stays only ever a hand's breadth ahead of her pursuer, an agent of some shady organization or other that has put a bounty on her head.

What's worse, is that Natasha is so tired of running. 

At the edge of exhaustion, James' kind and increasingly worried face awaits her, but she's been run so ragged, she no longer cares that she's pushing herself to her limits over and again to have at least these desperately short instances of his company.

It's in Budapest that everything falls apart. 

There is an unbelievable pursuit on foot through ever smaller and narrower alleys and Natasha is being run to the literal ground when a final corner turns out to be a cul-de-sac. Panting, she just barely manages not to run head-first into the wall with the momentum, bracing herself with both palms and a feverish forehead against the historical brick. 

Hurried steps slow on the pavement, then stop a safe distance away. 

The buzzing creak of an extended sinew rings out in the sudden quiet and Natasha turns slowly to face the unwavering tip of an arrow. 

Her opponent is backlit by the street lamps behind him, surprisingly tall and even more surprisingly steady in his bow's aim, considering how out of breath Natasha feels herself. Grateful calmness envelopes her like a downy blanket, drowning out James' panicked realisation.

Tension falls away from her like an old coat. She sweeps her hair back behind her shoulders. Takes a deep breath. Opens her arms wide and makes herself a clear target. 

"I'm coming home, darling," she whispers tiredly and offers herself to the assassin. 

To everybody's infinite surprise, he doesn't shoot. 

When he lowers his bow instead, Natasha cries with frustration and goes on the offensive. She whirls, kicks and punches at the man with sloppy abandon, tears in her eyes and not making a single move to defend herself. James is no doubt shouting obscenities at her but Natasha shuts him out, screaming like a harpy, daring, no, _demanding_ the man kill her already in all the languages she can think of. 

He does as good a job blocking her as he did tracing her, allowing her to take her uncoordinated frustration out on him without letting her cause any substantial damage until she finally sinks to the ground right there in the street, sobbing to the skies and begging for death. 

The man hesitates briefly, then lowers himself to the ground beside her as she cries her heart out. When Natasha finally looks up from bleary eyes, he has removed the purple domino mask from his face and is holding out a white paper tissue. 

"My name is Clint," he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can kill you like this."

~*~

Clint Barton has a lot of explaining to do and apparently doesn't really feel like doing any of that _at all._ To an alumna of the infamous Red Room, his relationship to his employers appears _unconventional_ at the very least. Numb, Natasha allows him to take her back to a small rented room, where she sits and waits while he gets yelled at over the phone by his handler. All around her, reports of her activities are spread around messily across every available surface, up to and including a single bed that, contradictively, has been made with military precision.

"So, _they_ aren't happy with me," he says after he's hung up, running a hand through his short, already messy hair.

Amusement creeps into the bristling agitation James is pouring out into Natasha's still apathetic mind, and her lip twitches involuntarily. Clint seems to take it as encouragement.

He squats down in front of her chair to search her eyes and she distractedly wonders whether that's a calculated decision, to give up the vantage point of his above-average height to appear more approacheable or even more trustworthy. It won't work; it's what she'd be doing in his shoes. 

Then again she would have finished the job and not brought a target home in the first place. 

"They don't know what to do with you now and to be honest neither do I," he laughs self-deprecatingly and Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not fucking you for sparing my life, if that's where you're going with this," she spits with disdain, secretly shocked at how hoarse her voice is. James' concern is like a cold grip at the back of her neck.

Clint does an almost comedic double-take, opens his mouth to reply only to snap it shut again.   
"No," he says eventually, shaking his head as if he can't believe she's come to this actually very reasonable conclusion, "I'm so totally into enthusiastic consent, like you wouldn't even believe." 

Filing away for later how he rises to his feet with the fluid motion of an acrobat or a dancer, Natasha watches him start a pot of coffee in the small kitchen nook, still shaking his head.

"I'm chasing her across half of Europe and the first conversation with the infamous Black Widow is about my sexual preferences," he mutters to himself, and Natasha hides her surprise when she feels James' emotions as clearly as if they were spoken aloud: he's starting to _like_ this man.


	4. so lost

The discovery that Clint Barton is not like most other people Natasha has met is only eclipsed by learning for herself just how much S.H.I.E.L.D. is not like the organization she's grown up with. Expecting to be made to disappear in some deep, dark dungeon, Natasha finds accommodations in a cell in compliance with the third Geneva convention an almost enjoyable change of scenery. After the initial turmoil at the agent's arbitrary actions, they even allow him to sit in on some of her subsequent interrogations, and nothing about him speaks of having suffered cruel and unusual punishment. In the privacy of her thoughts, James shares her confusion, his optimism in regards to her situation far outweighing her own.

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main interrogator is a tall whippet of a woman sporting a serious black bun who introduces herself as Agent Hill. Natasha immediately feels a certain kinship with the woman, her competence and no-nonsense approach reminiscent of the type of rigid hierarchy Natasha is so well-acquainted with. Agent Hill has a million and one questions about her past, covering Natasha's childhood to her career in the now effectively defunct Red Room, to the smaller jobs they can either link her to or just suspect she's been involved in. Natasha answers all of their questions without hesitation; some of them even truthfully.

It's on the third day when Hill begins the new round of questions by sliding a paper cup of coffee across the table, pushing the manila folder she's brought to the side of the table, and curls one leg under herself in a display of calculated casualness. _Just between us girlfriends_ couldn't have been conveyed any clearer if she'd written it in pink glitter across her forehead. 

"Tell me about your husband," Hill asks pleasantly, sipping at her own coffee. 

"I don't think you're his type," Natasha returns just as friendly, also sipping at the foul brown water and secretly basking in the mental caress this reply earns her. 

"How did you two meet?" 

"Through his mother." She replaces the tepid drink on the table and links her fingers in her lap instead, thumb smoothing over the ridge of her ring.

"How did you come to know his mother?" Hill's grey eyes sparkle with amusement, not hiding her love of a challenge. 

"We were on the same bob-sledding team." Natasha smiles evenly.

Opposite her, the agent grins like a shark, "Very well. Why don't I tell you a little about him instead?"

Natasha is a seasoned professional so naturally, she doesn't flinch. While outwardly she shrugs one shoulder indifferently, she reaches for his reassurance mentally. 

The weight of the thick folder slaps audibly against the desk when it's opened, and although the pictures are upside down and large sections of what must be reports are blacked out, it's all too obvious what kind of files these are. 

"Here's a little tale about a man they call the _Winter Soldier._ Stop me if you've heard this one before..."

A spike of pure, freezing terror washes through Natasha's veins and it hits her so hard, it takes a beat before she realizes it's not her own.

At no point has Natasha ever fooled herself into thinking that James has been the choir boy his mother and sister would have preferred him to be. Classified as most of his missions were, nobody gets to have a hero's burial at his age and earns it on virtue alone. Yet his visceral reaction to the many, many photos and incident reports Hill presents her with shake Natasha to the core. Their former Red Room superior sent both of them to fulfill similar tasks, but where Natasha had been applied as the cloaked dagger, James had been the heavy artillery. 

In the end the result was often the same, but so much messier. 

What's even worse though, is with every new fact she uncovers, it becomes clearer that they've been lied to for all this time. The socialist ideals they've sacrificed _everything_ for were never what their power-hungry leaders were striving for. 

Agent Hill watches her face like a hawk as she lays open more and more connections that prove how the Red Room has systematically murdered and manipulated for a goal no more honourable than lining their own pockets as they gained more influence. Until in the end, the higher echelons inevitably cannibalized each other.

It's quiet in the interrogation room after Hill finishes. The last image on the pile is of Madam B. 

A frayed, circular hole is gaping between her wide-open eyes. 

Natasha swallows down the bile rising in her throat, the wet noise of it feeling obscenely loud to her ears. Her eyes stay locked on her dead mentor's face for a long time. 

"Do you know where your husband is now, Mrs. Romanoff?" Hill asks, and while it isn't exactly sympathetic, it's not exactly not so either. 

"He's dead," Natasha replies flatly, too drained to pretend. There is no echo in her mind, the spirit fallen silent and beyond her reach in what she can only expect to be shock.

Agent Hill hesitates. Her eyes flick to the side minutely and having spotted the earpiece she wears from the beginning of this session, Natasha can only assume she's received orders she'd like to argue with. It will never cease to amaze her how this casual insubordination seems to be an acceptable course of action at S.H.I.E.L.D..

With what looks like reluctance, Hill reaches into the inner pocket of her suit jacket and silently places one more photo on the table in front of Natasha. 

It says a lot about her already shaken state of mind how long it takes until Natasha can make sense of what she sees.

A man is lying on what looks like tarmac, straps of a black facemask tangled in messy, shoulder-long hair that is matted with dirt and probably blood; his scruffy, dimpled jaw bisected by a thick, bubbly line of what is definitely blood. Strangely enough it's the collar of the special ops vest at the bottom of the frame that tips her off that this is James. The haggard and irrefutably dead face is so far removed from the cheeky portrait she's been given or the snapshot-like instances of the happy, charming expression she's glimpsed in between. 

A hiccuping sob constricts Natasha's chest and despite her best efforts to suppress the reaction, she hides her face in her hands.

~*~

They take her back to her cell and apart from the meals that are brought and taken away again untouched, she is left alone.

A day passes, maybe another. Natasha loses track with James a painfully unresponsive and withdrawn presence wallowing in his guilt at the back of her mind.

Some time between breakfast and lunch on one of the following days, the heavy door swings open and Clint Barton swaggers in, rapping his knuckles on the doorframe.

"Knock knock," he says with concerrning amounts of good cheer and Natasha casts a deeply unimpressed look his way from her curled-up position on the cot. 

"Wow, you look kind of terrible," he adds, visibly unconcerned. "They tell me you've declined room service and if I'm perfectly honest, I can't blame you. Up, up. I'm taking you to the cafeteria - there's baklava." He's halfway back out the door when he turns back around. "Come on! I've chased you across half a continent, I know you can be faster than that."

It's so nonsensical, Natasha warily follows him out the door from curiosity alone. 

To her depleted stomach, the rich baklava turns out to be nearly too much. Clint sits across the table from her in the empty mess hall, knee bouncing with nervous energy appropriate to the three large mugs of black coffee and plate of sugary pastry he's methodically demolishing. 

He doesn't talk that much after the initial invitation, which Natasha appreciates, as she's sure he's aware of her still many questions about his motives. They eat in strangely companionable silence and when he fetches a plate of sandwiches afterwards, she has one of those as well. 

"They're gonna offer you a job," he says when the last slice of bread is gone. "I mean- you probably get told you're amazing at what you do all the time, but god it's true. That shot through the window in Antwerp? Mindblowing! Well. Literally. But you know what I mean!"

His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs at his own wit and Natasha wonders whether Clint's maybe older than his carefree demeanor suggests. 

"There are some good people running this joint. 'Course, this isn't a democracy, we do have a firm hierarchy and for good reason, but nobody is going to bite your head off if you do your own thinking." He gives her a calculating look, and apparently unconcerned with her lack of response, adds "I know a thing or two about wanting to make amends for bad decisions, and this isn't the worst place to be working on that. Plus, since it's all my fault that you're here, enjoying some excellent coffee instead of floating face down in the Danube, I've been informed that means I've volunteered to head your official S.H.I.E.L.D. welcome wagon." 

Natasha raises an eyebrow but her lips quirk traitorously, impossible to stay unaffected in the face of his good mood. "I'm not," she replies after a moment's deliberation, and the way he perks up at her first words is gratifying in a way she'd rather not think too hard about.

"Not floating in the Danube?"

"Not enjoying coffee. Ever. I hate coffee." It's as good an olive branch as any and Clint's grin speaks volumes. 

"Fair enough," he laughs. "Obviously you have no taste whatsoever, but I doubt that's the last thing we'll disagree on."

When Director Fury joins her interview with Agent Hill the next day, he does indeed end up offering her a job. Clint, on his seat on the sidelines, doesn't say a word throughout the whole thing and as Fury anounces a short break, he's quick to fetch coffee for everybody.

Apart from Natasha. Before her, he sets a steaming mug of tea.


	5. opened up his little heart

Psych evaluation is maybe the least fun Natasha can imagine having, but she passes both these exams and the physical ones, excels at any type of fitness test they throw at her and makes top three of the all time high scores at the shooting range. It's hard to say who is more smugly satisfied about these results, she herself or maybe the man who brought her in. 

It takes more time to recover from the gut punch of having being so completely and utterly betrayed by her superiors, to stop second-guessing every innocuous instruction. As always, Natasha prefers to keep to herself, a habit that serves her well when her fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, much like their Soviet counterparts before them, hesitate to befriend their former enemy with the uncanny awareness and capabilities. 

Apart from Clint. 

As she soon finds out, Clint is casually cordial with everybody, and he's a tactile guy, too. A fistbump here, a friendly shove there, he's just made of casual touches. Where she flinched at his first congratulary clap on the back during training, hardly any time passes before she craves those little intimacies to an alarming degree. It takes her too long to understand that it's been actual years since she's been touched with anything else than brisk necessity and the guilt that races through her at the realization is overwhelming. 

She can't say she ever considered how much she might miss human touch when she married a spirit.

James' thoughts on the matter are inconclusive, their connection still firm, but as always not elaborate enough to convey anything but strong emotions. 

It takes six months until Natasha is given her first assignment, a quick night time B&E, photos of secret documents and undetected retreat. It's the type of mission she already pulled off masterfully at age 14, so there really is no question as to whether she'll succeed. As expected, Hill is satisfied with Natasha's effective work and the way she applies herself to new tasks. After two more months, she and Clint find themselves called in to meet with their new handler, a competent, besuited agent by the name of Coulson and thus, STRIKE Team Delta is born.

~*~

Team Delta runs together like a finely tuned clockwork. It is soon apparent that they are the most efficient duo S.H.I.E.L.D. has ever had in its employ and they are treated accordingly. Varying missions of intel gathering, infiltration and downright espionage are set off by surprisingly few, but just as efficiently executed demands for wet work and Natasha slips confidently back into the unparalleled skillset that once distinguished her from her peers in the first place.

In painfully slow installments she works to eradicate the red in her ledger, feeling strangely more fulfilled, now that it seems that she is more in control of whose lies she is telling. 

Even more so, now that she has a flesh-and-blood partner at her side. 

It doesn't take an investigative mastermind to see that Clint is falling deeply in love with her in increments over the course of their joint missions. In his humorous, self-deprecating way, he doesn't even hide it, as if wearing his heart on his sleeve like that is just a thing people actually do, as fearlessly and en passant as sharing their favourite ice cream flavour. 

Natasha doesn't encourage him, always wearing her ring unless a cover requires otherwise and taking care to make it abundantly clear in every way but the actual words that she considers herself James' faithfully wedded wife. It's testament to Clint's strong character, she thinks, that this doesn't put a damper on their teamwork and doesn't affect his professional performance, a fact Natasha is eternally grateful for. It's undeniable that his company and their intuitive understanding would be something she'd miss more dearly than she's likely to admit out loud. She _likes_ him, for lack of a stronger word, and it doesn't make things easier that he's so perfectly respectful of her boundaries, the soft look he sometimes rests on her the only indication that he's hoping for more. 

The arrangement of this open secret may not be perfect, but it's working. _They_ are working.

Until they end up in fucking Budapest again.

~*~

To say one good thing in advance: the mission itself is a success.

Everything is proceeding swimmingly while team Delta takes a million photos of themselves with the best known sights, adding a lot of visible credence to their cover as tourists. Things couldn't be better when Clint's self-destructing acid arrow lands unseen and on point in the main server room of a group of A.I.M-affiliated cyber terrorists, its inevitable meltdown delayed exactly long enough to give them a water-tight alibi. It's only afterwards that things spiral out of control.

The idea itself had been innocuous. Go to a club, be seen dancing around the time in question, have a drink on the old expense account, sleep in the next day, late breakfast, airport, back on base for debrief by afternoon. Coulson has been quite insistent that they deserve to let their hair down for at least one night, his way to acknowledge that their success rate continues to be unprecedented among STRIKE teams. They deserve to be proud of their accomplishments.

Around drink number three, the tension in Clint's shoulders begins to visibly let up, and by the time they've danced through the worst balkan pop the continent has to offer, their optimistic outset has turned as relaxed as that of any civilian. Some random gigolo approaches Natasha on the dancefloor and she laughingly throws her arms around her team mate's neck instead, clearly signalling her lack of interest. One strong arm loops around her waist and with a grin, Clint pulls her flush against him, effortlessy lifting her off the ground for a quarter-turn away from the man. 

Only afterwards, neither one of them steps away. 

The music changes to some slow R'n'B number about all manner of creative things they could be getting up to instead of dancing. Natasha rests her face against Clint's collarbone for just one chorus as they sway, because by all the saints in paradise, she's _starving_ for basic physical affection and she's far from blind to his personal advantages.

Clint's palm is a warm presence at the small of her back, fingers splayed a tactful inch above inappropriate and Natasha feels her body react with flushed excitement to the potential of that hand slipping lower. It's about balance, nothing more, when another bass-heavy verse finds their hips aligning, heat pooling between her legs so insistently, Natasha is sure he must be feeling it against the firm, muscular thigh that is flexing against her with every swaying beat.

It's either the best or worst moment for James to be reaching out affectionately for her through their bond. 

Natasha's whole body shudders with unresolved sexual tension and it takes quite some concentration on her part to straighten and shoot Clint a half embarrassed, half apologetic look as she takes a wobbly off-beat step back. Frustratingly, he seems to grasp her conflict right away, returning her smile with sadness, not reproach. He mimes getting them a drink and Natasha agrees, pretending not to notice how he discreetly rearranges his pants while she excuses herself to go splash some cold water on her face. 

Had that been the end of things, they might have been able to salvage their platonic partnership. Only when Natasha opens the door to the toilets, a young woman with lime green hair and a pierced lip beams at her, waggling a small plastic bag with a few bright orange pills and asks:

"Hey girlfriend. You in the mood to see some ghosts?"


	6. unlock the lock that kept it dark

When Natasha returns to the bar, Clint looks as collected as ever, though she doesn't miss that he's switched to drinking water. 

"Let's go back to the hotel," she tells him, not waiting for a reply before she takes his hand and pulls him towards the door. 

They don't exchange so much as a word for the entire way back, and Natasha knows Clint is covertly watching her to suss out whether they are leaving the club to move away from what just happened or towards something that still might.

As soon as she figures it out for herself, she'll make sure to let him know.

Natasha doesn't release his hand until the heavy fire door of their room has fallen shut behind them, the generic carpet and thick drapes dampening all sounds as hotel rooms the world over are designed to do. 

A misplaced sense of chivalry has had him sleeping on the too-short couch for the duration of their stay, and Natasha makes sure to keep her eyes locked on Clint's as she walks him backwards until his calves hit the bedframe. 

"Sit," she requests quietly and he drops like a puppet released from its strings, looking up at her with a carefully guarded expression. 

Her heels come off to join her well-worn trainers by the door and still he hasn't shown an inkling of impatience, waiting silently for her to make a move, _any_ move. She chides herself quietly for expecting any different from a sniper.  
The room is small and she doesn't want to sit too close or too far, so in the end she leans awkwardly next to the bathroom door, palms flat against the wallpaper behind her back, as if she needed to physically stop them from reaching out for him. And maybe she does. Because if she's honest with herself for just one second, that's what she wants to do. Has wanted to do for while now, and she's sure that if he wasn't already aware, he knows after this evening. And yet, while he's never made a secret of the fact that he wants her at least as much in return, he still respectfully stepped back when she asked him to. Natasha can't say it's a quality she'd attest to many other men she's met in her life.  
"You don't even know how amazing you are," she eventually says, overwhelmed with the truth of it, and she knows it's the wrong thing to say when immediately, he sags on a rushed exhale, rubbing a hand over his eyes in frustration as if she's just delivered his death sentence.  
_"Fuck,"_ he curses emphatically, every pore of his body conveying deep disappointment.  
"Wait, Clint, no-" is as far as she gets before he's up like a shot, pacing the few steps to the window.

"Don't do this Natasha, not the _it's not you it's me_ crap," he demands, shaking his head in bitter emphasis. "I'm sorry if I was out of line." 

He doesn't sound sorry. 

He sounds _furious._

"You weren't," she refuses, pushing away from the wall and ducking into the space between him and the window to force him to meet her eyes. "I-" she sighs in frustration, "I am terrible at talking."

"You're really not," Clint interjects impatiently, "remember that time when you convinced Coulson to take a whole personal day once?"

"Stop deflecting, I'm trying my best to explain myself here." Something of the desperation in her voice must be getting through to him, because his anger quickly melts into annoyance. 

"Don't bother. Whatever you say next is going to change everything and I don't want things to change. I know you only want me as a partner and I promise, I respect that. Quite frankly, I want that far too much myself to risk it for anything more than-"

"But I _do_ want you!" Natasha interrupts angrily. 

To describe Clint's cold look as doubtful is a vast understatement. 

Frustrated and confused by her own emotions, Natasha lets her head drop, leaning in that missing fraction more that allows her to rest her cheek against the hard plane of his chest. Now, without her heels, his heartbeat is steady and surprisingly quick right under her ear, the scent of barely dried sweat and skin mingling with traces of night club. Stoically he waits for her to continue, not pushing her away but not encouraging either. 

"You were married once," she says, and he makes a non-commital sound of acknowledgement. "Do you still remember what your wife looked like, first thing in the morning? Her favourite colour? Favourite ice-cream flavour? What she looked like when she was mad at you?" 

Glancing up, she meets his eyes. "Definitely the last one," he admits, but refuses to smile. "What are you trying to say?"

"I don't know any of these things about my husband." Clint's confusion is evident and the hard lines along his brow betray how he thinks she's being facetious.

"Did you know that there is no divorce and no re-marriage according to the Old Faith?" Natasha asks. "Marriage is the most sacred bond of two people, a one-time-deal since only bound to one another do we have a chance to be admitted to the Garden, or _paradise,_ as some call it. When I married James, it was to spend the afterlife with him."

Clint huffs derisively, obviously expecting a grandiose declaration of love to follow and makes as if to turn away, but Natasha grabs at his waist and holds on as if for dear life.

"Don't you understand? We got married for the sake of both our souls only _after_ he had already passed away."

Disbelief, confusion, and irritation chase each other across his face before Clint shakes his head and dislodges her hands from his body none too gently. 

"That's ridiculous. And impossible," he points at her accusingly, then runs that hand nervously over the early harbingers of stubble on his chin, flexing his jaw as he thinks. 

"Why are you telling me all this?" he asks at long last; no longer angry, but clearly still troubled. 

"Because-" Natasha hesitates. 

To her absolute mortification, she feels a pricking at the corner of her eyes. Swallowing hard, she blinks resolutely back, sets her jaw and refuses to allow a single drop to form. 

"Because-" she tries again, "you look like a squinting golden retriever first thing in the morning. Because you say your favourite colour is black, but it's in fact purple. Because you think that mocha ice-cream is the only justification for cream to be anywhere near good coffee."

A suffocating silence follows her words as Clint, visibly shaken, takes a seat on the sofa. 

Natasha sits delicately on the edge of the bed opposite him and chews the inside of her lip as she waits for him to mull things over.

"So you're saying..." he starts, then halts, opening and closing his mouth one or twice, then squints as if doubting his own conclusion. "That sounds as if you are telling me that you _like_ me. And that the reason you've been holding back is that you're being faithful to a dead man you've never even met?" 

At her her nod, Clint heaves a sigh and, shaking his head, disappears into the bathroom. A minute later, Natasha hears the shower running.

~*~

When he returns a short while later, Natasha has turned off most of the lights and is underneath the covers, advertising her willingness to just ignore any revelations of the past hours.

She forces herself to keep staring at the same paragraph of the travel guide that she's already failed to read for the past few minutes, despite the fact that she can perceive Clint hovering inside the doorway, looking at her. 

"I've been trying to wrap my mind around it, but I'll be honest, Nat, I don't know what to do with all this," he says, the fight gone out of him. "I mean, you know I'm not a religious man, so that whole esoteric mumbo-jumbo to me is, well just that. Superstitious nonsense." 

He seems to be mostly speaking to himself, rubbing a towel over his hair as he sits with his back to her at the far corner of the bed, dampness painting an irregular landscape against the fabric of his t-shirt. "With all due respect to your faith, but what was your grand plan here? Were you just going to stay celibate for the rest of your life?" he laughs in disbelief.

"Pretty much," Natasha admits, starting at just how fast he's turning around to give her an intense look. "In my defense, I didn't ever expect the rest of my life to last this long."

"That doesn't make any of this the least better!" Clint exclaims incredulously. 

Natasha can practically see on his face the moment the thought dawns on him and she knows his question before he even asks it: "How long have you been married?"

"A little over three years."

Clint buries his face in the towel with a choked noise of dismay and it's unexpectedly endearing.  
"That's the craziest shit I have ever heard," he admits upon resurfacing, grin laced with the slightly mad edge of a man hopelessly out of his depth. 

Smiling back at him, Natasha just shrugs as if it was of little importance.

Tucked away safely under the covers, it doesn't feel as intimate when he moves up the bed on top of the sheets. He lies flat on his belly like a child, searching her expression as he rests his cheek on the back of his hand. 

"No matter how long I've known you, you never cease to amaze me," he states with conviction. 

There is a hollow feeling in Natasha's chest, relief at having the truth out there and the burgeoining hope that they might salvage their friendship all mixed up with the desire to throw all sense overboard and just kiss that confused expression off his face.

Of course, the infamous Hawkeye does not miss the second that last thought flicks across her face. He raises an eyebrow.

"What do you want from me?" he asks quietly, and there's not even a hint of anything but non-judgemental curiosity in his tone.

"It doesn't matter. I can't have what I want," she replies just as softly, tugging the edge of the sheet higher.

Clint smiles. It's a surprisingly gentle and delicate little expression on his tired face. 

The bed dips and jostles lightly when he rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and drawing a long shuddering breath in and out through his nose. When he laces his fingers across his midsection, the whiteness of his knuckles betrays how much his outward calm is in misalignment with his thoughts. 

"Well, running the risk of sounding like the sleaziest corrupter ever, I sincerely doubt your guy would want you to deny yourself like that forever," he says, and then, like an afterthought, adds "Shame he ain't around so we can ask him."

Sensing Natasha stiffen beside him, he turns to raise his eyebrows at her in silent question.

"Actually..." she begins, a crazy idea forming in her head.


End file.
